A wise man once told me, “Lindsay, stop writing about how pathetic you are.” Well, it wasn’t so much a wise man as a constant slew of friends who are equal parts supportive and bored of my middle child syndrome. Either way, I’m hesitantly obliging.
The truth is, I don’t know if I can be funny if I’m not making fun of myself. The truth may also be that I’m generally not funny. But now that I’m making the commitment to steer clear of an 800-word self-deprecating soliloquy, I must resort to writing on what I know almost as well as I know myself.
No, not Harry Potter. No, not serial killers. The answer is: gangsta rap. At least part of the answer is gangsta rap. The whole answer is music, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll cover gangsta rap too! ... she said Caucasianly.
There’s a Jimi Hendrix quote on my Facebook that reads, “If there is something to be changed in this world, then it can only happen through music.” That quote is on my Facebook page because I believe it makes me look cool. It also vaguely illustrates the yummy, happy feelings that music evokes in me. The right song can amplify your mood to be more excited, more pissed, more confident. It contains a level of anticipation, inspiration and that triumphant crescendo of every great anthem. The crescendo doesn’t need to be blaring trumpets or a dramatic Styx-esque key change, necessarily. It could be your favorite lyric or the perfect harmony or whatever moment of the track that gives you an eargasm.
Which brings us back to the gangsta rap. Ever seen a freckly white girl singing along to Blackstreet while wearing tights and a circle scarf? You have if you were at He’s Not last Oct. 23. I rang in my birthday with a well-sung round of “No Diggity.” I’m a big fan of that song, because when Dr. Dre raps about giving honeys eargasms with his mellow accent, he was talking about me.
Hip-hop of the ’90s is among my favorite brands of tuneage. There’s nothing I’d rather blast on a summer day than the sweet, sweet musical stylings of Del tha Funkee Homosapien. I’ll kick back and pump up my old school jams CD that I bought at Starbucks. The cover art is just a bunch of graffiti—because that’s apparently how commercial coffee drinkers choose to interpret anything a shade darker than Billy Joel.
Of course I get off to more than just the statement spitting, tongue twisting jives of DJ Jazzy Jeff. While we’re in the ’90s (which I always am), I simply must pay tribute to the alt-rock gods that spun around in my Walkman. Hootie and the Blowfish, Third Eye Blind and Adam Duritz’s dreadlocks were the musical accompaniment of my life. If only the warbling voices of millennium-finishing front men translated well in today’s pop rock. I won’t bash any specific bands, because it’s not my place to say that your radio presets are poppycock. But in my humble opinion, you’ve got to go left of the dial for the good stuff. (Apologies for the pretentiousness, but I like to pretend I’m this indie-music fiend who scours over blogs in her spare time and wears grandpa specs with no lenses. The reality of the situation is that my best indie music comes off the “Gossip Girl” soundtrack. Low culture, meet high culture.)
Beyond the scope of the last 20 years, my music taste extends to the poodle skirt era. My doo-wop playlist boasts a catalog of old fashioned R&B that can psych you up for bopping, baby-making and anything in between. The seduction of these songs was moderately less explicit than last weekend’s Shooters soundtrack. So while my generation generates boners up against that foggy dance floor mirror, I’m hand-jiving along to the smile-inducing melodies of the Four Tops.
My above-mentioned enumeration of “Music Genres the Matter” is an individual reflection of taste. It’s incomplete without the favorite classic rock bands and constant string of folk albums that additionally occupy my iPod. It’s also incomplete without any of your favorite songs and artists. I’d list them all here if I had the volume to do so because I have an unhealthy appetite for people-pleasing. In the end, it all comes down to pleasure: eargasms, orgasms and every possible prefix to -gasm. Since you can’t hear or feel me writing this article, I personally aim to stimulate reading-comprehension-gasms with my eloquently edited sargasms.
Music and writing make me happy. Their pure and pleasurable entertainment value provides the balance and creativity necessary for my ascension up Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. We all know that Duke works hard and plays hard and then brags hard about both. But outside of those two seemingly opposite but equally exhausting activities, self-actualization is most likely derived from things you do in the empty pockets of your day.
To pull from another Facebook quote of mine used primarily to feign coolness: “Time you enjoy wasting was not wasted.”
Lindsay Tomson, Trinity ‘12, is currently applying her Duke-developed skills of sarcasm and awkwardness in the real world. Her installation of the weekly Socialites column runs on alternate Wednesdays. You can follow Lindsay on Twitter @elle4tee.
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